


Third Rail

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Valentine's Day Fluff, between two gigantic flirts, unapologetic drunk flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6017398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drunken flirting between the Mayor of Goodneighbor and the Sole Survivor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Rail

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!

Sole’s smile is dazzling white, flashing shy and wide behind the mouth of his brown bottle, the beer label worn well away with age. “Yeah?”

Sole only drinks beer when he’s already drunk. He says it tastes like piss, nowadays. Apparently, beer used to have bubbles in it. Used to taste bitter, in a good way, but not skunked. Hancock doesn’t even know what a skunk is. “Yeah. You don’t look like you could.”

His leg is bouncing under the table, on his toes, legs tucked up under the booth in the corner of the Third Rail. Sole’s knees knock into his irregardless; he’s too bulky for the cobbled together chairs of the wasteland. He picks at the corner of the soggy label with blunt nails, his face turned downward. “Well, I did. Back in Anchorage. Swear on my mom’s grave, God rest her soul, I totally fuckin’ bench pressed an entire suit of power armor.”

Hancock sips at his low ball of whiskey, where murky, dirty cubes are melting slow in the chipped glass. “An entire suit?” Hancock doubts, leaning in.

Sole’s looks up. He matches him, forearms bumping against his elbows, the wiry hairs of his arm prickling even against his thick, scarred skin.

“An entire suit.”

“The whole frame, and each piece?”

This close, Sole looks real good. Handsome, even, flushed with alcohol, his nose and cheeks bright red, his thick lips quirked in a coy smile. “They don’t come in pieces back then. Came right off the manufacturing bench whole.”

“So, you’re tellin’ me…” Hancock murmurs it real low, like he’s telling a secret, and Sole leans in even closer. His eyes are dark, lids heavy. “You bench pressed an entire suit? What’s that, one-fifty, two hundred pounds?”

Sole’s broad shoulders hunch in and forward as he ducks his head, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. He glances up at Hancock. Their eyes meet and he chuckles, reaches up and rubs at his mouth. “Yeah, ‘bout that. Maybe more.”

Hancock grins, reaching out to slide a hand up Sole’s arm, resting on his bicep. “That’s pretty damn strong.”

He might be drunk, too. But he doesn’t have to be drunk to do this, trailing his fingers up his smooth skin, slipping them under the hem of the arm of his t-shirt. Sole’s eyes dart towards his hand and then back to his face, smile going lopsided.

“Yeah, I’m uh, I’m pretty damn strong.”

Hancock’s pushing forty-two this year and he knows Sole is pushing thirty, but there’s something so appealing and utterly romantic about flirting like this in a grimy corner of a grimier bar. Or maybe it’s because he’s always been a romantic, and he knows he’s probably been in love with Sole since Fahrenheit had rolled her eyes at him as he strolled back into the Old State House, hands still covered with Finn’s blood. Had loved him when he came into his office with a bat full of Triggerman brain matter. Before they had tumbled together into the well-worn couch cushions of the State House with Jet on their breath and their veins singing–

Sole clears his throat, his knee wedging in between Hancock’s legs. Hancock squeezes his arm, exhaling slow, and their eyes meet just momentarily before Sole finishes his beer. A drop drips down from his lips, and he laughs around the bottle and pulls back as if he can dodge the wetness rolling down his chin.

Hancock laughs, and his hand creeps upward.

–

Charlie’s gears whir. “Another smooth skin.” His voice box dead pans.

Magnolia glances over his shoulder at the two of them, laughing shortly. “He has a type.”

“They’re going to make the customer’s sick,” Charlie huffs, idly cleaning. A bubble of laughter erupts from their corner. Hancock has moved to Sole’s side of the booth. Even in the dismal lighting of the bar, Charlie’s eye optics can see Sole’s hand on his knee. “Oi. Boss! Oi!”


End file.
